Vagabond: The Stormrider
by Yronhand
Summary: In the darkness of the land, a lost warrior seeks his destiny, the unsuspecting savior of a world.
1. Vagabond: The Stormrider Prologue

Rainfall 

The drops of rain fell from the skies above the cold wastes of the north, the passing rainstorm departing the vicinity of a cold oasis where some creatures had taken their shelter. In the trees of that small haven on the edges of the wastelands, two shining eyes peered into the dusk. His breath created small wisps of white in the cold air.  The faint smell of rotting reached his nose, the stench annoying him greatly. His sight pierced the growing darkness, searching out the source of the disgusting odor. In moments he found it, originating from a small group of ghouls, servants of the Scourge. His eyes flashed, a pale flame gathering around his hands. The ghouls were stupid, the lowest of the Scourge's minions. The dark warrior withdrew his weapons, a pair of double-sided blades. The azure fire embraced the weapons, of shimmering elven-made steel. The ornate rune-spells faintly inscribed on the blades of his weapons enhanced the magic of his blaze even more.

The small group of five ghouls twitched, for by now even those nearly mindless killing beasts could sense his power. He fearlessly strode out to confront them. The crunch of his boots on the rocky, snowed-on ground caught their attention. His lithe shape dashed forth, leaving barely detectable tracks on the earth. With a vengeance his blades ripped into them. A right-hand slash tore through the torso of one ghoul, while with his left he sliced through the midsection of another as he spun around in a pirouette. He was a maelstrom of banishing death, sending the cursed souls back to the grave and beyond. They could not stop him; such was his mastery of his weapons, and of his own strengths. In mere seconds, the five corpses dropped to the ground, never to rise again with spirits of their own, by their will or by others. 

The warrior sheathed his weapons, putting them back. His breath barely grew heavy from the momentary exertion. He grit his teeth, forcing down the magic his first martial training has instilled in him. It faded quickly, as it always did nowadays. He could still use its benefits without succumbing to the finality that the Demon Hunters had attained. He shook his head. _What am I? Who can I call myself?_ He knew not the answer to that question. He raised his eyes to the night skies, the stars glittering in the darkness. He looked to see that time had passed, hours, as he thought those thoughts. The elder folk turned from the undead on the ground, and trod upon the path back to the forests of his brethren.

Note: This is but a prelude to the rest of my tale. If anyone can supply me with more official info. About the WarCraft world, I will gladly appreciate it.


	2. Vagabond: Wind of Quel'Thalas

**_Vagabond__: Wind of Quel'Thalas_**

Ether strokes wove their paths through the twisting flora of the eternal woodlands of Quel'Thalas. The splendor of the recovering forests, from the war many years ago, was returning. Up in the crystal clear skies above, a flock of birds slowly flew onward, heading south for the coming winter. Upon the uppermost parapet of the lone castle that was the principal bastion of the Council of Silvermoon's military power in northern Quel'Thalas stood two figures, of ages far beyond that of the lesser mortals. One, was dressed in the fine garments that the nobles of the elven race were wont to attire themselves in. He was the Lord Thanas Everwind, ancient and wise, the protector of these lands of the north. His silver hair was moved in the soft breeze that swept through the heights of the forest. Thalas gazed over the realm that he had to safeguard, the responsibility inherited from his forefathers before him.  His family was once a minor one, and in terms of territory, was still minor. However, back in the times during the Great Sundering of the world, it was the Everwinds who helped one of the most important, though even smaller, families of the time. 

The last descendant of that once great clan stood beside him. Silver-blue eyes stared into the dawn brought about by the slowly rising sun. He was the last of the Rainsouls, who were called the riders of the Nether's Storms, the Burning Legion. The Rainsouls were among those who led the world of the Night Elves and the ancient dragons against the demons and Kiljaeden. In one of the last attempts of the Legion to strike down the defenders of Kalimdor and its world, a massive assault struck down the ancestral home of the Rainsouls. The Storm Riders managed to defeat that great power, led by Kiljaeden himself, but only with a great price. Many of them perished in the struggle, and the seas consumed much of Kalimdor, their beloved homeland. The elven warrior who stood beside old Thanas, was both old and young. He had slept in eternity since the Sundering, and had only recently awoken to Thanas' mystic summons. In that time long ago, the Everwinds managed to rescue the remnants of the Rainsouls. In gratitude, the Rainsouls pledged, with a binding of magiks that reached through times, to help the Everwinds in one endeavor, no matter what it was, save if it would bring greater harm to the world.

The warrior's name was lost in time, and Thanas had named him.

Dæas, he was known now. Thanas, learned much in the archaic literature, referred to one of the first major heroes of that antediluvian war named him thus. He had agreed, and even said that he believed that Dæas was likely his name, though he was probably not _that Dæas. Arcane runes were tatooed upon the back of his hands, runes in the language of the Night Elves. The runes on his right hand signifying Life and Honor. On his left hand, were the rune glyphs of Death and Justice. He was roused at the height of the Alliance-Horde war, when the Horde had pierced through Khaz Modan, and ravaged their way deep into Quel'Thalas. It was when they took the Runestones from Caer Darrow did he appear. Though he was unable to stop the Orcish troops from taking the arcane stones, the Runestones instilled in him a power he could not understand. He barely made it away from the chaos and death at Caer Darrow then. The runes on his hands had come into being then.  Since then, he became a vagabond, following the path of those runes and living according to them. It was only now though, did Thanas find him, when the elder elf used the summons once again to call the Rainsouls._

Dæas looked at Thanas, his eyes glinting. "Thou art of the Everwinds, the great Lord Thanas? Why dost thou seeketh me?" 

Thanas smiled genially at him. "Sir Dæas, let us not speak so formally, in the language only the scholars use." 

The other elf shrugged. "If it is thy—your wish. I care not for what jargon we use, only that the meanings and intent be clear." 

Thanas nodded. "You know why I have called you forth?" 

The other nodded his assent. "It is known to me. You call to claim the promise, the oath of my family to aid you in one single endeavor that may not be of any detriment towards our world. What is this undertaking you wish of me to do?"

Thanas sighed. "I had originally called you forth to help and do battle with the Orcish Horde, since I had felt the corruption of Kiljaeden's Legion within them." Dæas nodded, and Thanas continued. "However, I lost track of you, and the war took my attention. Since it was under control, I sought you not again, until now. You know of the Scourge, the legions of undead?"

"This I know. They come from the wastes of the north, far in the continent of Northrend. I've fought a few of their underlings, corrupted beings. Ghouls, and not much of a threat to Quel'Thalas' warriors if they be careful as they always are."

"Indeed. But you should do well to realize that these ghouls are merely the weakest of the Scourge's power. And then, did you sense the power, the darkness within?"

"The demonic influence that created them you mean? Yes, I felt it as they died. It was the Legion's influence again, again they send forth another horde to weaken the defenders, the peoples of the world. Still, I think not the Legion a patient race."

"Certainly, I believe they aren't." Thanas looked out again into the forests. The pair grew silent then, as they both pondered again these thoughts. Dæas looked at Thanas, who sighed. He nodded, and without a word Dæas left him, descending the spiral staircase of the rampart they were on. Some time later, Thanas looked down to see the enigmatic vagabond disappear into the depths of the woods, his feet carrying him swiftly out of sight. Thanas breathed in the crisp, cool air. "In Kalimdor, my brothers, do you know what happens to our world?"

Dæas knew that the screeches in the air belonged to a foe he did not want to fight right now. Much time had passed since he'd left Thanas and his stronghold. In Caer Darrow, he knew his weapons lay. His blades, his armor, his ancient might, all these lay in the depths of his resting place. He had little now, but the sword he'd taken from Thanas. It was finely crafted, and was among the greater works of his smiths. But he preferred others to such weapons. He continued his along the small trail, knowing that the darkness and the canopy of the forests confused the gargoyles above to where he was. Like his brethren of old, he could walk in the shadows practically unseen. Shadowmeld they called it now, the elves of Mount Hyjal. He'd been there, not long ago. Surreptitiously of course, since he did knew not what would happen should his presence be known. In the shadows he'd studied his brethren, saw what they had become, hiding from the world. This amused him somewhat, but he came to observe, and observe he did.

In the few years he spent hidden amongst them, he'd searched their ancient lore, their literature. He'd soon discovered the Demon Hunters, and searched for them. Away from the majority of the Night Elven society, they practiced their powers and skills. He had approached them, to see how their powers worked. Learn he did for some time, until it was discovered that he had not come from Hyjal. Once he suspected they knew of this, Dæas disappeared into the wild, to make his way across the sea. He managed to get to Northrend, where the plague of Ner'zhul abounded, uncontrolled. He watched the paladins try to help stem this, and saw the despair of a small band of them leave for Ner'zhul's icy stronghold. In his mind, he knew their fate. In Northrend, the magiks the Demon Hunters used confused him, and he struggled for some time there, until over the course of his survival in that wasteland, he had managed to live in harmony with it and bend it to his will. 

He could fight as well as they and still he keep his sense of vision. He was fortunate enough to be able to, he knew. But this was also why he was here, fleeing from a pack of gargoyles, searching for his weapons of war. He could sense them nearby, the latent magiks within them calling to him. The shrieks above him made him freeze for a moment, letting his ability to shadowmeld conceal him once again. He had moved too fast, and they had managed to see him for a moment. _Careless! He chastised himself for his impatience. Impatience and rushing led to mistakes, which often led to fatal results. The gargoyles seemed to have grown in number, he noted. He had seen only four last time, and the small pack had increased to six now. __More reason I must get my arms. He knew by experience of the naturally tough hides gargoyles had, which had broken his sword just a few hours ago, when he fled. Deep in the ground, his blade rested waiting for him. It was made of the finest crafted adamantine and forged using the sheer power of magik. It had taken many days for the mage-smiths to make for him, and had exhausted them severely. However, it had produced the blade he called __Riftein._

It could not be broken by anything with lesser strength than the highest-grade of adamantium, or destroyed by anything less than the most powerful of spells. Perhaps even Dragonbreath couldn't harm it he mused. The breath of the younger ones, he corrected himself, for he knew that the Aspects were immensely powerful, and may be able to destroy it.  At any rate, the _Riftein would prove strong enough to pierce the crystalline hides of these beasts that followed and harassed him. He gazed out into the darkness, searching for something. His eyes caught onto the small entrance of an underground chamber, and by the arrangement of the stone around it, he knew that it was his. He crept over to it, and made his way inside. The gargoyles began to shriek even louder, their cries piercing deeper into the night. They could sense their prey escape from them, and began to frantically fly closer to the ground. They managed to catch his scent near the entryway, and a pair of them landed crouched nearby, waiting for him to come out._

Inside, he strode down the singular corridor. With a flick of his hand and a few words, the torches sprang to life, lighting his way. He preferred the light to darkness, though it mattered little to him really, since he could see just as well. The stone hall soon split up, one leading to where he'd rested, the other to where his belongings lay. He strode purposefully down that hall, which led to a small room. He looked through the arranged items, which were grouped from various texts to trinkets. He eyes soon caught sight of the _Riftein. The __Riftein's blade gleamed in the light, its edge still as sharp as the day it was forged. The slight curve displayed a subtle elegance, which his eyes feasted upon, since in the back of his mind he was a connoisseur of weapons crafting. His hand caressed its hilt, the enchanted dragonscale hide unblemished and cool to the touch. His hand wrapped around it in a firm grip. He took it and stepped away from the rest of his treasures to take a few swings. Despite the rather small confines of the room, he managed to get a few good slashes. It had a peculiar sound as it cut through the air, a unique hum to it that only it could make, he knew._

Satisfied, he stepped back into the aisle of things to retrieve the blade's sheath from the weapons rack. The sheath was made of strong adamantine metal as well, and a decorative symbol was engraved upon it. He slowly took care to sheath his weapon, knowing full well its sharpness, and somehow, he remembered cutting himself with it long ago. It was something he did not want to experience, or re-experience, as the case may be. A shadow moved in the corridor, and that caught his attention. He immediately drew out his blade, the ring of its metal in the air. _Damn, forgot about those things. As he suspected, one of the gargoyles had managed to get in the rather smallish hole. It screeched as soon as he came into its view. The gargoyle immediately turned and attempted to run away, at a very significant disadvantage here in the confined spaces of the underground chamber. He shook his head._

Up above, the rest of the gargoyles began to cry excitedly to each other, not knowing what had happened to their very reluctant scout. The fell back as a heavy body shot out of the opening, causing them to take to flight. They circled and soon recognized the body as one of them, sans a head. They soon noticed Dæas ascend from the subterranean halls, his blade in hand, and now dressed in the light mithril mail he had used long ago. They shrieked again, and four of them attacked as one, the last one seeming reluctant to do so. The four who charged him burst apart when he managed to snag one of the gargoyle's wings. Wounded, and unable to take to flight, he cut it down in one blow. The other three surrounded him, hovering over the ground. Still up above, the last gargoyle hesitated to attack, seeming content just to watch its brethren take down the elven warrior.

Simultaneously, the three nearby gargoyles darted forward, their speed surprising despite having seen them move. He was ready for them though, and he moved as soon as they did. A right hand overhead cut split the body of the one directly in front of him, and he managed to evade the other two. They persisted in attacking him, and changed their course to follow. He fell over and rolled to avoid them, getting up again in the same movement. It was fortunate he had done so, since one of the monstrosities had dived down at him, impacting the ground. Before he could take advantage of this, the other one attacked him again, its claws reaching for him. He easily parried its claws, which were soon becoming bloody. A screech from behind him surprised him, and the grounded gargoyle screamed into his ear, now perched on his back and its jaws about to strike. A thought flashed through his mind, and unhesitatingly, he called forth his magick. An ethereal flame engulfed his form, burning the gargoyle on his back. It shrieked and screamed, but to no avail. The magical flame was not easily quenched, and it fed on the beasts' body, charring it beyond any recognition. 

Its dying screams startled the last attacking gargoyle, which decided to flee. As it turned and took to the skies, Dæas shook his head. As flash of light darted from him to the beast, and it dropped to the ground. A small blade sprouted from the apex of its wings, that blade the smaller brother of his _Riftein. He'd given it no name as of yet, though it was just as deadly and uniquely made as his killing blade. The creature writhed in pain, as its' lifeblood flowed out of it. The blade had struck through its' spine, and the point of it had pierced through bone and sinew, the very tip visible in its chest. Dæas stepped on the gargoyle and pulled out the blade, causing it to scream once again. The elf shook the blood off the smaller blade, and the blood-spattered weapon shed the gory liquids slowly, but fully. It was merely another of the qualities had liked about it, since it could be cleaned without any hassle. The creature's breath slowly quieted, though it still struggled to breathe. __Damn it.  He raised the __Riftein and slashed down, decapitating the beast._

The air around him grew still, the attacking gargoyles dead. He sheathed his weapons and began to survey the small battlefield when a voice from the trees spoke and the sounds of clapping could be heard. "Congratulations, mysterious warrior. 'Tis not everyday we get to see such skill in combat. Killing five gargoyles by oneself is quite an accomplishment." Dæas spun around, his eyes searching for the voice when he saw a lithe figure drop down. It was an elven ranger, one of those who patrolled the areas around Caer Darrow. Dæas sheathed _Riftein when he saw he ranger approach, though his eyes narrowed into slits. The ranger continued clapping as he approached and neared Dæas. Dæas straightened to his full height as he addressed the ranger._

"And what is that to me?"

The ranger chuckled, imitating Dæas voice. "What is that to me?" He laughed even louder, which annoyed the warrior to no end. Dæas turned around, ignoring the other elf, proceeding to leave for the lands of Lordaeron, where he would search for what remained of the Order of the Silver Hand, or for the clerics that hailed from Northshire Abbey or others of the like. A hand gripped his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. He slapped it away, only to have another push him. He spun around in cold anger, as his fury always was. He was greeted by a small dagger to his chest, held by the ranger that had mocked him just moments ago. "I didn't say you could leave just yet. You may or may not know, but Caer Darrow is off-limits to 'wanderers' like you." 

Dæas merely raised an eyebrow. "Wanderers like me? I'm no wanderer, one as you think. This is my home here, this small patch of land." Indeed it was, in times long past, many ages ago. It only occurred to him after he said so that there was no one to enforce that claim, since he was the last of his family. It was also apparently the wrong thing to say to this elven ranger, whose eyes flashed in fury as he finished. The ranger pushed the dagger forward a bit, and he could feel its bite, since the ranger had stuck it through the part where he had not properly worn his mithril mail. 

"You dare claim the lands of Quel'Thalas? You are but a mere rogue elf, not an elven Lord!" The ranger shook his head. "At any rate, you are coming with us to our garrison at Caer Darrow, where our commander will decide your fate."

Dæas smirked coldly. "I think not, little ranger. I have permission of my own to do as I need to, and you shall not interfere me." The ranger scowled, and Dæas could see it, despite the fact that the ranger was hooded. 

"Oh? Well then, I think not as well. You're coming with me, now move!" The ranger pushed the dagger into his side again, but this time Dæas had had enough of it, and was ready. As the ranger did so, he spun at an alarming speed. He smacked away the dagger the elf held, sending it spinning into the night, and in the same moment he withdrew his small balde and pressed it into the ranger's throat, locking the elf in a hold.

"You are presumptuous, young elven ranger. Did you now think that I could escape from you?" The elven ranger struggled to breathe, and quite surprisingly, chuckled.

"Hardly young, for I'm over seven score summers old."

"My point exactly, you're barely full grown"

A flash of disconcertment appeared on the ranger's face. For it seemed that one hundred and forty years was nothing for this elven vagrant, which would make him one of the older elves. It was only now that Dæas realized that the ranger he held was not male, but female. He could just feel her form beneath her robes and uniform. She grit her teeth in annoyance.

"I don't care how old you are, it is _you who are presumptuous this time. Do you think that I would fight a pack of gargoyles on my own? And have you forgotten what I've said just moments ago?" Exasperation momentarily surfaced in Dæas' expression, and he immediately jogged his memory. __" 'Tis not everyday we get to see such skill in combat.", "—you are coming with us to our garrison—". At this he realized what the ranger meant. His eyes darted around to find the sparkle of three arrows pointed at him. He sighed and thought over his options, most of which were not to his liking. __I could get away from them, but I'd rather not have a patrol of my own kind persuing me. Should their skills at tracking be as in the older times, or at least comparable, I would rather face a troop of ravenous ghouls._

He pushed away the ranger and sheathed his blade. The hood fell away, and for the first time tonight he saw her face fully. Soft, auburn, hair spilt from the hood, reaching down between her shoulders. Her features were those as he always found attractive, which was not much to say, since he found many women attractive. He chuckled at the thought. The range scowled at him, rubbing her neck. He noticed that, and saw that the small red line marred her fair skin. _Her beauty is typically that of the elves. He raised his hands and kneeled, bowing mockingly at the ranger. Intense irritation crossed her face, and unlike before, it stayed. _

"Get up, and start moving." She ordered, pointing the way. As he did so, she growled at him. "Do remember, you have three of Caer Darrow's finest rangers pointing arrows at you."

He shrugged, and decided to annoy her just once more. "Ah, so, that means that you're not among Caer Darrow's better rangers?"  A sharp pain blossomed from his rear, causing him to wince.

"Shut up." She smiled wickedly, he could see when he glanced behind him. "I'm a fair archer, which is for an elf, a dead-shot. But—", he felt her long sword's point bite into his back again, "—I'm a better swordswoman. So keep quiet, or you'll feel my blade's bite more often during this little walk."

He complied with a sigh, muttering to himself. He should have just gone into the darkness, and shadowmeld, but no, he had not remembered to do so at the time. It had been too long since he'd had experienced warriors and trackers on his back. Not that he liked it of course, he'd rather face stupid ones, since the experienced fighters were more liable to harm him. He quietly went along into the darkness.


End file.
